BS I Love You
by the.goal.is.greatness
Summary: I never meant to hurt you, but you're pretty when you cry. I never really loved you, but I'm pretty when I lie. [Draco x Harry]


**Title:** B.S. I Love You  
**Genre:** Romance / Drama / Angst  
**Rating:** M  
**Pairing:** Draco x Harry  
**Spoilers:** N/A  
**Summary:** I never meant to hurt you, but you're pretty when you cry. I never really loved you, but I'm pretty when I lie.  
**Word Count:** 1,423  
**Warnings:** AU / minor choking kink

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Summary is a song by VAST.

**A/N:** I usually prefer a stronger Harry and a Harry x Draco pairing, but this writes better this way, I think.

* * *

What had he been thinking? Offering up his _friendship_ to that Potter boy while they stood in the Great Hall on that first day of school years ago? What had he been _thinking_? That The-Boy-Who-Lived would suddenly become a brooding and cunning Slytherin? That his father would have been (dare he say it) _proud_ of him for befriending someone so renowned, someone so famous, someone so… Gryffindor?

And really, there was no other place that boy would have been placed. What was the use in imaging a world like that. A world where, when he held out his hand he would tilt the entire world on its axis and change the course of a Potter's history. Malfoy's belonged in Slytherin. Potter's belonged in Gryffindor. It would take a world-shift of incredible proportions to change the outcome of that future. He couldn't even begin to fathom it.

But had little eleven year old Draco Malfoy even been able to imagine _this_ either? This future of his where he was seventeen and glacially attractive and as Head Boy he could sneak in the Room of Requirement whenever he chose. This now where what was waiting for him was a head of tousled dark hair and lips pursed in perpetual surprise. Where eyes softened when they looked at him, making his gut clench in a strange, unwelcome mix of lust and happiness.

The feeling made him so angry at his involuntary response that he would frown, eyebrow a haughty arch, eyes glints of ice. That golden smile would falter, tremulous, demure, while their Savior glanced up at him from underneath fringed lashes.

"Malfoy."

It isn't a question, but he nods anyway, stepping across the room in quick, ground-eating strides. He doesn't pause when he reaches the corner of the bed (the only piece of furniture the room had provided them with) but instead just reaches out and grasps those porcelain cheeks in two rough hands and leans down to press their lips harshly together.

There are hands grasping at his wrists desperately, blunt nails scraping against the thin skin there and the pain is just another pinprick of pleasure against the heat washing through him. There is a breath sighing into his mouth in a rush and he feels himself swell at the thought of filling that mouth with other parts of himself. His hands slide back, holding tight and twisting in wild hair, pulling backwards until Potter's throat is a violent backwards bent of white, until his spine bends down towards the mattress at the pressure and Draco can press down with his weigh, slide between the artlessly falling open thighs, and he can align themselves together.

Harry's head hits the bed with a muffled thump, braced briefly by a pair of hands. But those same hands shift immediately, trailing down cheekbones, the shell of an ear, to the column of throat, where he presses his hands briefly, eyes glowing with a thought… But no, they keep moving, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, as clothing vanishes and skin can meet skin. Nails dig into shoulders, making him jolt forward at the pleasure/pain. The motion slides them together, only boxers separating them and his head falls forward on a groan into a shoulder.

"Ugh!"

Panting breaths in his ear make him rock mindlessly, pupils wide and unseeing, only the coiling of pleasure in his gut, the scramble of hands down his pants. With a muffled spell, those last pieces of clothing vanish and there is a glorious, hot, wet, slide of skin against blessed skin, so burning and hard and _aching_ that he almost comes right them.

"Malfoy… Ah! Ah! Please… _please_…"

He barely remembers muttering the necessary spells, the words to ready them – sometimes he forgets and the pleasure is accompanied by such a burn that it makes him break out in goosebumps. But this time he slides in sure and steady, all the way to the hilt. When Harry cries out and arches against him in helpless abandon, Malfoy bites down on the meat of shoulder before him to keep him own sounds deep inside. At the feel of teeth, those inner muscles clench around him like a vice, and blue eyes clench tightly closed, the prick of tears in the corners. Don't say anything, don't let anything out, can't let him know…

"_Draco_…"

His name is the breath of life, a sigh, a plea, an emotion that Draco doesn't want to put a name to. He leans back, not far enough to slide away from the velvet grip around him, but far enough that he can slide his hands back around that pale, delicate throat. The pressure he exudes is not dangerous, not life-threatening, but it chokes off another call of his name, makes the breath stutter and catch. He's lost his glasses in their tumble, so there's nothing to hide the absinthe pools of his eyes, like poison as they stare up at him, wide and glazed and so perfect it makes Malfoy want to do all the things he knows he can't.

It makes him want to study with him in the library, take walks by the lake, _hold hands_. It makes him yearn for kisses on the cheek. It makes him want to make love to this boy so slowly that he won't even realize he's climbing a cliff until he reaches the top and spirals violently, beautifully over the edge and blacks out from the pleasure. It makes him… he wants to… he can't… he… wants… _he wants_…

Those easy, rolling thrusts shift, his hips flicking forward with a snap over and over and over. He can feel his stomach clenched so tightly, wound like a drum. Those pools of green below him are wide, the mouth open in a silent breath that he cannot take in. Malfoy slowly pushes down with more pressure, and watches those eyes widen, watches them pool with tears, feels the hands dig into his shoulder muscles in his struggle for air. At the first flutter of eyelids, he gives a snap of his hips and lets go. He watches the chest fill with a gasping breath, but then they are both gone, gone, gone.

His mind goes blank from climax, eyes blind, and when he comes back down to earth, his head is slumped back onto a slender shoulder, relaxation dripping from him like rain, as a hand strokes idly through his hair. He could easily fall asleep like this…

"I love you."

A shiver works its way down his spine at the words, so softly whispered he almost thinks he imaged them for a moment. But the way Potter has tensed beneath him gives him away. For a moment, he imagines a future where he says the words back, where he agrees and they can kiss and begin this dance again. A future where it doesn't matter that his father is a Death Eater and the boy sprawled inelegantly below him is the Defeater of the Dark Lord. A future that they can write themselves…

But no… things like that do not happen to people like him. He knows his future. Every Dark Mark inked bit of it. And, unfortunately, there is no place in it for this.

So he lets himself rise, schooling his features into a stone mask, jaw clenching with the effort not to make a noise that will give away his heart when he slides out of that warmth. Instead he remains impassive, blank. A statue. "Do you now, Potter?" He smirks down at the Gryffindor, even as he waves his wand and makes himself impeccably presentable once again. Like nothing ever happened. "I always said Gryffindors were the dumb lot." He spins on his heel, waving his fingers in a dismissive gesture over his shoulder. "See you next week, little Savior."

He pretends that he doesn't hear the sob from behind him as the door closes, but he does.

It is the same sound his own heart is making as it breaks.


End file.
